


call it luck, call it tragedy

by akaparalian, youngavengersbigbang



Category: Young Avengers
Genre: America’s/my potty mouth, F/F, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian, https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngavengersbigbang/pseuds/youngavengersbigbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cohabitation is possibly the best thing that’s ever happened to either of them on a Monday morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	call it luck, call it tragedy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [almondmilk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almondmilk/gifts).



> The idea of Kate having a self-sufficient living situation is one I liked a lot before I read the _Hawkeye_ annual, and after reading said annual became completely committed to. Also, can you tell that domesticity is my _one true weakness_? Jeeze.
> 
> Play ‘she’s thunderstorms’ on YouTube

There’s this little apartment in an unassuming brick building, the neighborhood around it quieter than some and only a little livelier than others. The door is painted the same nondescript grayish-green as the doors on all the other little apartments around it; there’s a slightly faded brass number reading ‘5B’ to match the slightly faded brass doorknob to match the plethora of slightly faded brass doorknobs and numbers on the numerous other grayish-green doors in the building. (The doormat, on the other hand, is unique in its shade of pale lavender that manages to complement both the door and the bland terra cotta brown of the carpet.)

America Chavez has been staring at the door for almost five minutes now; she’s catalogued every detail at least three times, from the fine scratches on the brass ‘5B’ to a slightly dark patch running along the grain of the wood in the lower right corner. She’s taken to sort of glowering at the door, in fact, from her position leaning against the opposite wall. Eventually, she’s going to have to go over there and knock on the stupid thing, the way she came here to do, but – _eventually_. 

Before she can get a chance, though, the doorknob begins to turn and the door creaks open even as America stills completely and tenses on the opposite wall. Black hair, tied in a loose knot that’s falling out just so at the nape of her neck, is the first noticeable feature to back out of apartment 5B, followed by a shade of soft, creamy lilac that’s draped loosely over a thinly muscular torso in the vague shape of a blouse. She doesn’t notice her sulking visitor until she’s backed out fully, juggled what America knows to be her practice bow and quiver until she can find a free hand, locked the door, and turned around. 

Kate pauses and cocks her head in surprise, studying America silently for a moment before shifting her grip on the practice gear and saying, “It’s eight o’clock. It’s a Monday. What are you _doing_ here? Also, how the hell did you get inside?” 

America stares purposefully at the carpet, not moving a muscle. “Billy let me borrow his key to get inside the building.” 

“Oh, right, I meant to give you and Noh spares as well,” Kate says thoughtfully, almost to herself. “Need to remember to get them made. Haven’t had time. Remind me. Just the front door key, though…” Catching herself, she shifts her weight from one hip to the other and rewinds. “Okay, so then _why_ are you here?” 

For a few seconds, America doesn’t respond, and instead just keeps staring at the rather nondescript industrial-type carpet. Eventually, though, she steels herself and mutters, “I, uh. Don’t have a place to stay in this dimension. Been too busy hopping around, and I don’t really have the money too…” She waves a hand flippantly and looks up from the carpet to finally stare Kate in the eye. “And there isn’t room at Sickly Sweet Boyfriends Inc., but Teddy said you’d picked up your own place, and I thought you might—“ 

“Duh,” Kate cuts her off, pulling her key right back out of the pocket she’d slipped it into and turning slightly to open the door and sort of gesture with her load of training gear. She looks mildly baffled, but also strangely relieved, like maybe she needed the distraction. “Yes, no, definitely you can room with me, there’s a spare room and everything, this is actually perfect, this is great. Yes.” 

“Um,” America tries as she pushes off from the wall and somewhat awkwardly follows Kate inside. The apartment is – well, it’s somewhat less purple than she’d envisioned, but still clearly decorated and furnished entirely by Kate herself. Neat. Functional. Stylish. Not bare, but not overbearing. The walls are neutral beige-ish colors, but the furniture is vivid pops of red and black and crisp white. There’s a kitchen to the right, but Kate leads her quickly past, through the lounge - pretty standard, as far as America can tell; TV, loveseat, chairs, coffee table - and past a large window, which is far more interesting; it’s bracketed by thick, crisp black curtains, which at the moment are doing nothing to block the view of a nice yard between their building and the next, with a few trees and benches and flowers and a swing set for the kids she’d seen leaving for school while she was on her way up. 

There are three doors on the far wall, two of which are closed and one of which is open just enough to be identifiable as a bathroom. Of the two closed doors, Kate leads her to the one farthest to the left, holding the door open and gesturing her in with a grin and a flourish. 

It’s a moderately sized room – just on the small side of ‘average’, but that’s more or less what she expected. It’s very clearly unoccupied; there’s a few plastic storage tubs along one of the walls, and the bed is made in a hyper-neat, barely-ever-touched way, the comforter a nice slate gray that pops impressively against the white walls, which themselves are much more plain than anything else in the apartment, without any particularly interesting furniture to spice them up. 

America hesitantly steps farther inside, walking over to the bed a bit stiffly and slowly taking off her jacket and laying it on the bed. 

“So, stuff,” Kate interjects from the doorway. America turns and raises an eyebrow at her; she’s lounging comfortably against the doorframe, her arms crossed and her eyes curiously bright. She’s there, but she’s also a bit removed, in a thoughtful sort of way; it’s almost possible to hear the things speeding through her mind, or see them running across her face. 

“Where’s your stuff?” she clarifies, and America shifts to sit down on the bed and look around at the room with a bit more detail. It’s clean, and in good repair, but Kate clearly doesn’t use it for much more than a bit of storage. Well, at least she feels a little less defensive and awkward now; a vacant room means she’s not that much of an added burden, right? 

“Mostly just clothes,” she says after a second, still not quite looking Kate in the eyes and still feeling a bit – well. The fact that the room is empty doesn’t make her feel all _that_ much better, after all. “And they’re, uh – pocket dimension.” 

Kate blinks a little bit, thoughts clearing off her face completely as she considers that. “Damn. That’s got to be convenient.” 

America laughs just a little bit, and she’s still just enough on edge, and she knows it, and Kate knows it, and she knows Kate knows it, but laughing makes it a little better, a little less. Just enough. 

\---

They fall into cohabitation with surprising ease. America was expecting it to maintain an awkward tenseness well through the first few weeks, and in some ways, her expectations prove accurate – the conversations about splitting the rent, about sharing shower space, about protocol for one or the other of them bringing home a partner could probably have gone with much more ease – but, by and large, things go pretty well. They learn little things about each other and adapt accordingly: Kate likes her cereal milk first, but only eats it on Saturdays. America is a painfully light sleeper, though she does try to conceal just _how_ light in an effort to keep Kate from going to too much more trouble on her behalf than she already is. Kate can’t cook to save her life; America is surprisingly good at it, but insanely picky about the ingredients she uses. They both take a hidden, guilty pleasure in Dog Cops – it takes more than a week of shared mealtimes and bumping into each other on their way to the bathroom at two a.m. and going out together to patrol the neighborhood, just the two of them because it’s more convenient than getting the whole team together, for them to admit to this deepest and darkest of secrets, but once they do it becomes a weekly ritual in the living room, complete with popcorn and some of Kate’s favorite soft, fuzzy lilac blankets. 

It’s actually way easier than it has any right to be. Just a few weeks in, it already feels like something they’ve been doing all their lives, normal and natural and _comforting_ – because yes, apparently they’d both forgotten that it’s kind of nice to be able to yell at the TV with someone else, or make someone else pancakes, or stay up until three in the morning at your own kitchen table talking and laughing and forgetting that sleep was ever a concern. It feels – right, somehow. And honestly, that’s the part that starts setting off warning bells. 

Like, for instance, when America’s messing around in the kitchen on a sleepy Sunday, just sort of idly throwing things together in a large pot and trusting it to come together into a soup they’ll actually be interested in ingesting versus reporting to the local poison control center, and Kate comes in only kind of dressed, sports bra and short short short shorts because it’s the middle of August and their air conditioning gave up the ghost at some point in the wee hours of two nights ago, long after they’d stopped pelting the television with popcorn and enjoying canine crime shows altogether too much, and instead of reacting America just slides her a cup of coffee (iced, with way too much cream but only a tiny dash of sugar, because a) Kate is a heathen and b) _no air conditioning means no hot beverages_ ) and says “Good morning, princess,” not even shifting her attention away from the soup. 

Well. Not too much. But that’s got to be the heat; her brain’s a bit fried. 

“Stop calling me princess,” Kate says automatically, reaching out for the coffee and taking it away to settle down into the supremely soft, comfortable couch cushions with a nearly-silent sigh of happiness that’s completely at odds with her words. “It was funny the first time, kindasorta. Now it’s – I don’t know, patronizing? Something.” 

“Is not,” America replies, reaching deep into the depths of the fridge and successfully returning with what appears to be the very last of the chicken broth. “Princess.” 

“I will _so_ kick you out,” Kate threatens from the couch, but there’s absolutely no heat in it – which isn’t to say the first time she’d said that America hadn’t stiffened and panicked a little anyway, but they understand each other a little better now. 

“Will not,” she says with a grin, looking up from her concoction for just long enough to grin across the room and feel hear breath get caught in her chest when Kate smiles back, easy and honest and plain, and fuck, _fuck,_ it’s happening again. She hastily looks back at the soup, stirring with perhaps a bit more force than the unassuming foodstuffs really deserve, and curses a blue streak inside her head – she doesn’t need this shit, she really doesn’t. Because Kate’s only human, right? And they spend all their time running around punching people (or shooting people or magicking people or-) and it’s kind of tough remembering all of a sudden, on a normal day, in the kitchen, doing nothing at half till noon, that the next time aliens attack or some nutjob decides they’re interested in becoming the mayor of New York the violent way, she might be just a little _too_ only human. 

And America’s not quite ready yet to admit just how much that thought’s been bothering her lately. More than it should. More than – okay, yeah, more than she worries about the rest of them, and she tries to tell herself that’s because they all have certain advantages that go beyond just being freakishly good with projectile weapons, but that just doesn’t quite cover it. 

_She’s so fragile,_ something murmurs at the back of her mind, and she allows herself just a second to squeeze her eyes shut and shake her head an infinitesimal amount before going back to the soup. Fragile. Sure. Fragile in the same way all humans are inherently fragile, maybe, but she’s also – well, she’s Kate Bishop. You could pretty much cut diamonds with Kate Bishop. 

“Soup ready yet, Gordon Ramsey?” Kate calls from the couch, and that makes her smile _almost_ as much as the mental image of Kate punching diamonds into the kind of fancy-people earrings she’s surely got stashed somewhere around here. 

“I’m not that bad,” she protests half-heartedly. “I only chased you out of the kitchen once.” 

“Gordon Ramsey,” Kate grumbles. “I’m serious. _Gordon Ramsey_.” 

They stare across the room at each other for a few silent seconds, Kate with a grumpy frown barely hanging on on top of a shit-eating grin and America with her eyebrows raised, one hand on her hip. Then, without warning, Kate bursts out in a storm of giggles and America snorts, looks away, goes back to the soup. It’s normal. It’s comforting, it’s warm, it’s… 

It’s a bad fucking sign. 

\---

Sometimes, though, it’s Kate leaning her head against the window in her bedroom, simple white curtains drawn enough that she can press skin to glass, the door open just enough that America catches is accidentally from the corner of her eye on her way to bed in the wee hours of the morning. It makes her freeze, stops her breath, and she stands there longer than she should, but there’s something… worrying about it. Maybe it’s the way it happens more than once. Maybe it’s that she has the sneaking suspicion that Kate _knows_ she sees, that she’s too clever to accidentally leave a window in on her vulnerability. Maybe it’s the pattern she feels more than notices, at the back of her mind, where she’s trying to ignore it: Kate goes over to Clint’s, to shoot, to patrol, to make sure he’s been feeding himself. Kate comes home, is silent all evening, goes to bed early. Kate’s door is open just enough in the wee hours of the morning, forehead to window, eyes shut and orange streetlamp light filtering in to whisp along her cheekbones. 

America doesn’t know what to _do_ with that. She honestly doesn’t. It bothers her, of course it bothers her; she can feel herself getting closer and closer to this girl (too quickly, too _close_ , but even though she knows better she _likes_ it, enjoys having someone to be close to again) and so of course seeing her exposed like that, and knowing – _suspecting_ , she tells herself firmly – at least part of why that exposure is so goddamn raw affects her more deeply than she’s comfortable with. But what is she supposed to do about it? It’s not like she can talk about it. She doesn’t really do words; she hasn’t got Billy’s total power over them, or Loki’s silver tongue, or Teddy’s easy charm. She wouldn’t know what to do, she wouldn’t know what to say. 

\---

But then: 

_Fuck it,_ she thinks, and suddenly in place of peaceful, easy silence and the gentle sound of the soup sloshing around a bit as they eat and the spoons clinking against their bowls she’s bursting with “He’s. He’s not good for you, you know?” After a moment, she adds awkwardly, “Barton, I mean,” just to convince herself that they both know who, exactly, they’re talking about. 

There’s utter silence for a solid five seconds; Kate’s frozen with her spoon in her mouth, her other hand resting around the curve of her coffee cup, and America can’t breathe, and she can’t look at Kate, and she can’t look _away_ , and maybe she doesn’t do words but she also can’t stand watching this because, yeah fine, she _cares_ now. And maybe it’s nothing, but – she’s not about to sit on her ass and not even try to help. 

Kate sets her spoon down slowly, and the gentle _clink_ when it comes to rest against the bowl blows itself way out of proportion, enough that America almost flinches. She draws herself up, staring down into the bowl, and then slowly says, “I know. But he’s not _bad_ for me, either.” 

She gets up suddenly, her motions quick and almost skittish; America’s still frozen at the table, her eyes locked on her own slowly cooling bowl of what ended up as something vaguely akin to French onion soup, her heart beating in her ears, and – and it startles her to realize, after one laborious moment, that she’s _furious_. She’s not even sure who she’s mad at, or what, but her veins are being burned out with the strength of it, and she’s shaking, and her eyes squeeze shut for just the barest instant before she shoves her chair back and turns on her heel, ready to scream or possibly punch something – 

But Kate’s already gone; her door has already snapped shut, closed firmly but with control, and the room keeps the echoes of her stiff back and quick steps, stronger than anything, stronger than America will ever manage to give her credit for. 

So she slowly sits back down, her body curling in on itself just slightly as she sets her elbows on the table and scrubs roughly at her face with one hand before running it through her hair until she can tug on the ends just sharply enough to remind herself of why she said that in the first place, of why it matters to her, of what all this really boils down to. 

It occurs to her, as she shoves her remaining soup out of the way until there’s room to rest her head on the table, close her eyes, and breathe, that _she’s_ probably not going to end up being any better for Kate than – whatever Clint Barton is. If he’s Kate’s friend, then – well, then America’s probably that too, and they’re probably equally bad, as far as it goes. Barton shoots things, she punches things – that’s really the only difference, she tells herself. 

And if Barton’s her… 

_“No,”_ she says firmly, out loud, just to doubly reinforce the concept to herself. She’s not going to start thinking about that – she’s not going to drop this to the level of are-they-or-aren’t-they, that’s not what matters. It wouldn’t make a difference. Really. She – it doesn’t affect her, it’s not her problem, and she is going to _let it be_. She doesn’t care. Kate is what matters. Kate, because she’s managed to worm her way in close enough that America will risk this sort of, of confrontation where there’s no way to physically make her point; Kate, because she’s the point. Not whether anything else is going on. 

“I don’t care if Kate’s screwing him six ways to Sunday,” she says to herself, very firmly, very quietly, and the thing is, it almost works. She _almost_ believes it. 

She shakes her head viciously to clear out the jumbled mess of thoughts chasing each other around her brain, stands up, stiffly puts bowls, spoons, cups in the sink, rinses them, scrubs them with a carefully restrained fierceness, so as not to grind them into something finer than dust, sets them out to dry. Then she makes her way into her room, shuts the door as gently as she is able, and just – stands in the middle of the floor, staring at the ceiling. She stands there indefinitely, not even close to keeping track of the time, but she never does manage to make herself stop thinking. 

\---

She only wanders back out of her room after it’s been a good few hours at least; when she does collect herself enough to quietly make her way into the lounge, Kate’s already there, sitting upright on the loveseat with her knees pulled tight to her chest. She’s got headphones on, and she’s sort of slowly nodding her head to the music; it’s playing loudly enough that America can just barely hear the beat and the slightest hint of the guitar, and it takes her a second, but she identifies Stairway to Heaven. She pauses on her way to the couch; Kate’s eyes are shut, her lashes long against her cheek, and if she’s noticed that America’s here, she hasn’t made any indication of it. After a moment, though, she sits down slowly, and Kate freezes for a tiny moment before resuming her gentle swaying. 

She settles into the couch and waits for a quiet few minutes; Kate hasn’t acknowledged her more than that brief freeze, and that’s terrifying. But she doesn’t have any idea what to _do_ about it, so she waits. 

Eventually, though, the song ends – America takes some time in the interim to reflect on how it’s a _damn_ long piece of music – and Kate slowly takes the headphones off and turns to look at her. 

They stare at each other for a while; Kate’s eyes aren’t red or puffy like she’d worried they’d be, and really there are no signs at all that she’d cried. More than anything, really, she looks _tired._

“I know,” she says; the words are slow, but still sudden enough in the silence that America almost, almost jumps. “For the record. But – I mean, I’m good for him. I think. And sometimes with – with _friends_ ,” and she laughs a little, as though she thinks the word preposterous, “that’s what matters, right?” 

America blinks slowly and leans back into the couch a bit more, her eyebrows furrowing, staring across the room and out the window; it’s dusk, now, and the sky is fading from flushed red to gray-midnight blue, layers of clouds partially obscuring the cityscape in the distance. She doesn’t like it, she realizes suddenly. She doesn’t – not that it’s hers to _like_ , to approve or disapprove of, but she doesn’t think that this is really the kind of sacrifice anyone should have to make. Even if they want to. 

“I,” she tries, glancing at Kate from the corner of her eye and dammit, it always has to come down to things she doesn’t know how to say, doesn’t it? 

“I want,” she starts again, and her throat is fluttering choked-closed against her will; she takes a deep, silent breath, goes in a third time: 

“I want you to be – happy,” she manages, her face burning just the tiniest noticeable amount. “And I don’t think he makes you happy, Kate.” She pauses, takes a deep breath, wishes she could sink through the couch cushions and into a place where this wasn’t, had never been, a problem she felt the need to take it upon herself to solve. “I mean… It doesn’t look like it. Lately.” 

There’s nothing for a few uneasy seconds, just stillness and the unnaturally loud sound of her breathing; it’s almost enough to convince her that she ought to get up and walk back to her bedroom and go back to pretending she doesn’t care quite this much, maybe even pretend she doesn’t care at all. 

But then there’s a motion so quick she feels it – in the air, in the dip of the couch, in the skin on her forearm where they brush together – more than she sees it, and: 

“Thank you,” Kate says, leaning back, and America’s not quite there yet, her brain still speeding to catch up. “For – well. For caring, I guess?” 

_She **kissed** me_ , America suddenly realizes, her mental processes catching up just in time to slam to a halt. “You _kissed_ me,” she repeats aloud for confirmation, too stunned to even turn it into a question. 

Kate laughs, just the outside edge of unease coloring her voice. “Yeah. Um. That’s not a problem, is it?” 

America leans back into the couch a little bit and actually thinks about it. Well. This makes certain things a bit easier. She’s certainly not _complaining_ … but. “Noh-Varr?” she asks, her voice tight with the sudden realization – but before the word’s even fully left her mouth, Kate’s shaking her head with a half-smile. 

“Turns out, the popular Kree philosophy on romantic relations is the same as the sex-positive human one,” she says, and, well, America doesn’t quite know what all of that means to this situation, but she thinks it’s a good sign. 

“Casual sex is awesome,” Kate adds when America’s made it clear via one arched eyebrow that she needs a little more clarification. “Also casual smooching.” 

“So you were… Friends-with-benefits?” America tries, relatively certain that’s the right word for it in this corner of the multiverse. 

Kate laughs at her – gently, without venom, but even so America stiffens a little bit and holds back a scowl. “Does anyone actually call it that? Like, in real life?” Kate wonders, and she shrugs, completely unsure how to even begin to handle this situation anymore. 

“So,” America says after another long moment of letting the awkward tenseness in the air stew around them. 

“So,” Kate agrees, looking at her from her position approximately 3000 times too close for America to really be thinking all that clearly. “I mean… I don’t want to make this weird. This is kind of weird, isn’t it?” 

Well, yeah. It is kind of weird, America decides. She’s not really sure how this kissing-the-person-you-live-with game works. Or, for that matter, the kissing-your-teammate game. Or even the kissing-a-girl game. Or – well – she’s not 100% on even just kissing _people in general_. But… what the hell. 

“Weird’s okay, princess. I’m pretty used to weird, at this point.” 

Kate smiles, a bigger smile than she’s seen all day or all week or maybe all year, and her eyes light up, and she laughs a tiny, happy laugh, and – hell, maybe the talking thing’s not so bad after all. And certainly not the kissing. 

\---

The next night, they go out; when Kate suggests it, America’s terrified at first that she’ll want to go to the kind of fancy restaurant where she can hardly breathe without worrying she’ll a) break something or b) piss someone off, but, though something in Kate’s smile says she knows exactly what she’s thinking of and may or may not try that out later just to watch her in an awkwardly social situation (horrible spoiled rich girl; they’re always evil, and Kate’s a pretty good example of that sometimes, and _no she does not find that endearing shut up_ ), she instead suggests that they go dancing. She says she knows a good club not too far away that opened up recently enough to still be new and exciting but long enough ago that most of the curious ‘new business crowd’ had moved on to the next joint. 

So they go; America hasn’t really got much to wear in the way of clubbing clothes, but she does have one dress, inky blue and slouchy, that she found at a thrift store once; it still smells vaguely of moth-balls, but hell, she thinks she looks pretty good in it. 

Kate, though – it sounds really fucking stupid, and in fact just thinking it kind of makes her want to punch herself in the face, but Kate actually really in all seriousness makes her heart jolt to a stop as she gasps almost silently. She looks… _amazing_. She always looks good – America’s come to realize that that’s part of her thing, both in heroing and in her day-to-day life; she’s the deadly-gorgeous, smooth-talking, sharp-shooting one, and she’s _never_ out of character – but this is completely different. Her hair’s perfect, smoothed back and curled just enough that it swishes behind her when she walks, and damn, she can just _imagine_ what it’ll be like when she dances. Her outfit is actually relatively simple – high-waisted white shorts and a sheer, strapless ruby-red top that accentuates her lipstick almost too much – and, really, it probably wouldn’t look all that spectacular on most anyone else. But on Kate… 

She swallows hard. 

“You look nice,” she tries, shifting her gaze to something that makes her feel a lot less creepy: the sink. Quite a nice sink, but not nearly as… well, suffice it to say she’s pretty sure she doesn’t have a thing for sinks the way she has a thing for Kate. 

Kate doesn’t respond, and after a moment she turns back to her, mildly concerned, only to find that they’ve switched roles a bit; now _Kate’s_ the one doing the staring, and now that she knows that she can practically feel her eyes. It’s not something she’d readily admit, but she flushes scarlet and promptly shifts her gaze to her boots, polished and cleaned for the occasion. 

“Thanks,” Kate says, a several beats too late, her voice cracking just the slightest bit as though her mouth was dry. “You too.” 

And that kind of sets the tone for the rest of the evening. 

\---

They take a cab, because Kate’s pretty sure they’ll need one getting home anyway and she doesn’t want to leave her car overnight. There’s a line to get in, but Kate flashes the bouncer a smile – not seductive, but familiar, and he returns one just like it – and they walk right in. 

There’s music, with a steady beat that’s just the right tempo to get her heart pumping a little faster than normal, and the lighting is deeply red, washing everyone out but somehow only making Kate shine a little brighter, America thinks as she follows her deeper into the crowd. 

They find a little space to call their own, and maybe she’s not the best dancer in the universe, but between Kate and the music and the smell and feel and strangers pressing in around them on all sides she thinks she does an okay job of letting herself go. 

Kate’s gorgeous, bathed in the red light and the music in equal measure; they’re not pressed as closely together as some of the other couples in here, but they’re close enough that America’s heartbeat is erratic and jumpy and unable to quite match up with the rhythm of the music. It’s not really something she’s shared with another person before, at least not like this, not when it’s familiar and still weirdly _comfortable_. Because – it’s Kate. How could it not be? 

Both of them loose track of time pretty quickly, maybe have one too many drinks (Kate’s ID is naturally flawless and probably cost more than all of America’s worldly possessions), and end up standing on the curb at half past two, trying and failing to flag down a cab, the world around them and most of the evening swirling together into a pleasant blur with occasional distinct features, like when Kate had brushed up against her full-length once, twice, three times in the middle of a song, and neither of them had thought to ask whether it was intentional, or when another interested party had tried to lead Kate away and she’d glared them off, or what Kate looked like when she laughed, too softly to be heard over the music but close enough to feel in her bones. 

_It’s been a good night,_ she thinks distantly, leaning ever-so-slightly into Kate’s shoulder as she finally succeeds in flagging down a taxi, and she could get used to that – good nights to go with good days to go with a good. Person? Friend? Kate? A good Kate. 

Well, at least she’s not nearly wasted enough to say that out loud. 

\---

There are good nights, there are lazy boring nights where they just lay tangled up together on the couch under a fuzzy blanket watching shitty TV shows, there are nights when Kate gets glitzed up to go to one of her father’s _functions_ and drags her along and suddenly Kate having moved out in the first place is kind of really understandable (not that Mr. Bishop is a bad _person_ , just… possibly a bit overbearing and also probably difficult to hide your nighttime habits from for long if those happen to involve running around in spandex at unholy hours in the space between midnight and morning), and there are nights when it’s like nothing has changed and they’re just cohabiting friends lazing around in their apartment, and nights where they make out on the couch and up against the wall in the living room and on the kitchen counter and in Kate’s slightly-too-small-for-this bed and there are nights when- 

Nights when it’s past three and America jolts awake to the perfectly identifiable sound of Kate’s window opening, someone slithering inside and hitting the floor with a light _thump_ and an almost imperceptible sniffle. 

It’s Kate, she’s certain of it; for one thing, the alarms on this apartment are pretty much as advanced as the fucking Avengers’, because a) Kate is a bit paranoid and b) Kate has reasons to be a bit paranoid and c) Kate is really really wealthy. For another, she’s learned to recognize the pad of those particular booted feet pretty much anywhere; those are the black ones, Kate’s favorites. 

She gets up, slowly and silently, listening almost absentmindedly to the soft, fabriccy noises coming from the next room, accompanied by breathing that was somewhat more labored than normal and the occasional stifled cough or hiccupping sniff. Between her soft, fuzzy red socks – a fourth of July gift from Loki, since the asshole seemed to have decided that was her birthday – and putting effort into her muffled motion, she’s completely silent as she stands in the doorway of Kate’s room, staring in at the open window and the blankets pulled off the bed and wrapped tightly around her body, and she looks too _pale_ , washed out and cold, except her face is flushed red and her eyes are tightly shut and America’s breath catches in her throat. 

She’s blindingly drunk, that much is obvious – she can smell the alcohol on her breath from all the way across the room. But she’s not unconscious, and not unaware, because when America lets her breath out in a slow _whoosh_ she opens her eyes and looks over and gives her a watery smile. 

“Sorry,” she says, her words less slurred than wrapped in thick, scratchy cloth. “Did I wake you up?” 

America scowls at her and covers the space of the room in just a few rapid steps, sitting down beside her on the floor and pulling her in close; her skin feels slightly clammy, like she’s been sweating and it’s chilling her now that she’s inside, and she shivers when America pulls the blanket away from her and rearranges it so that it’s covering both of them. “Are you okay?” she asks, urgency driving her tone. “What happened? How long have you been gone?” 

Kate shrugs. “Went to Clint’s,” she says, and America _growls_. 

Kate’s shaking her head, though, pulling away just slightly so she can turn to face her properly. “No, no, it wasn’t – d’you know what today is?” 

It’s so obviously a leading question, but she has _no fucking idea_ what’s going on. “Tuesday?” she tries, because – well, okay, technically _yesterday_ was Tuesday, since it’s 3:30 AM or so, but whatever, close enough. 

Kate laughs a slightly scratchy laugh and looks away. “Yeah, but. More importantly… you know all that stuff about when we went and found the Scarlet Witch, right, and Doctor Doom did his thing?” 

America nods, slowly, suddenly starting to see where this is going. “And you guys, uh…” She coughs, clears her throat. “Lost. A couple people. Right?” 

She can feel Kate’s slow nod against her shoulder, as well as the silent, gusting sigh that racks her frame. “Yeah. Including my… my best friend.” She makes a dry, hard noise at the back of her throat, and America feels something in her chest clench at the sound. “It’s been a couple years now,” Kate adds, “But still… today, you know?” 

And she _does_ know. She knows what it’s like to lose, and to remember, so she just nods quietly and scoots herself a little closer and pulls the blanket a little tighter. 

“So you went to Clint’s?” she asks, and Kate nods again. 

“He was there,” she explains. “Saw the whole thing. So he knew without me having to explain, and Billy and Teddy are probably upset enough already without me being there with them, and Eli’s on the other side of the country, and Tommy…” She trails off, shaking her head. “So I went to Clint’s.” She chuckles softly and leans her head on America’s shoulder, her hair tickling at her arms. “All he ever has is cheap beer, but at least it’s good cheap beer, as far as that goes. And days like today he doesn’t even mind letting me at it.” 

“Well,” America says after a few moments of pause. “You can talk to me, you know. I know I’m not always that great at. Words. But…” She trails off, resting her head against Kate’s and concentrating on her breath for a moment. “I can try, you know?” 

Kate smiles in a way that leaks into her voice, despite the exhaustion and remembered grief already there. “You do better than you think,” she murmurs, and they trail into silence, sitting together like that for the rest of the night. 

America wakes up with a killer backache from sitting on the floor for so long, but she honestly couldn’t care less. 

\---

Summer slowly fades its way into fall. Kate ditches the short shorts for oversized, deliciously soft sweaters, all different shades of red and orange and brown that are practically warm to the touch, and America reveals that she knows how to make a really damn good pumpkin latte – good enough that Kate declares her “my own personal Starbucks” and does her level best to prove to the rest of the team just how fabulous the drinks are by steadfastly refusing to let them have any of hers and entreating America not to make any for them. She’s usually amused enough to oblige. 

Strangely enough, America’s never really struck by any sort of shift in the dynamic of their relationship. It just feels so natural; they progress easily from lazing on the couch together to lazing in Kate’s bed, which, by virtue of its larger size, has become _their_ bed, slip into referring to things as “ours” instead of “mine” or “yours”, tumble down without a thought into the idea that this living situation might really actually be pretty permanent. 

Which leads them to evenings like this, one tightly wound mass of limbs and hair and blankets and mugs of spiced cider laying limply on the couch and watching the shitty Halloween flick that’s eventually going to make way for Dog Cops. How the absolutely ridiculous excuse for a film has lasted over two hours so far is honestly far beyond her, but considering Kate’s wrapped around her like an octopus making snide comments at the screen and gesturing with her mug, she’s finding it harder and harder to mind. 

As much as she really, really hates herself for so much as idly thinking the cliché, she can’t help but realize that it all just _clicks_ , fitting together so smoothly that she can’t even be jarred by how quickly it all seems to be happening. 

She grins. Stupid clichés, okay, yeah, but she’s embarrassingly happy about them, so… she can live with it. 

“- and was someone seriously _paid_ to design these costumes? I mean, I like purple a _lot_ , but there are _limits_.” 

America snorts and draws her arms closer to her chest, bringing Kate with them. “Limits, huh?” she asks, nodding meaningfully at the gym bag in the corner, the top unzipped to reveal the purple hell inside: purple sneakers, purple socks, purple water bottle, purple sports bra. The bag itself is actually gray, a clever disguise that masks the true, deviously purple intentions of its owner. 

“Shut up,” Kate grumbles, swatting lazily at her arm. “It’s different. I fight crime, and it is a truth universally acknowledged that all of us do-gooders have terrible fashion sense.” She interrupts herself with a yawn, resettling herself contentedly into their little nest. “I mean,” she continues, gesturing vaguely, “just think of all the _spandex._ ” She turns her head slightly to glace up at America before adding with only the slightest hint of petulance, “Except you. You seem to have escaped the curse.” 

America shakes her head silently, a lopsided grin tugging at her face without her permission. So, yeah, it’s kind of weird and new except not, and neither of them is really the world’s finest when it comes to communicating, and they argue sometimes, and Kate likes to grumble and argue with and banter at the TV instead of watching in peace, and there are a million other little everyday things, but – there are so, so many more _good_ things. And they’re so much more _profound_ , as dickish as that sounds, even in her head. 

She rests her chin on the sleek black mop in front of her and closes her eyes. “I love you, princess,” she says, much quieter than she’d intended, her voice warm and full to bursting, her grin fading into a small, content smile. 

And she can’t see it, but she knows Kate’s smiling back; she can feel the way her attention shifts completely away from the stupid crappy movie and onto _her_ in the slight movements she makes, she way her breath suddenly gets deeper and slower, like she’s trying her best to take it all in, too. 

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the extra 2k that snuck their way in there. Uh. Surprise?


End file.
